The schoolmaster took a seat beside
him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy
sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted
arms round his neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.
'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor
schoolmaster.
'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her,
lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' The
sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in
hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him
gently down.
'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster,
anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the
child, 'and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You
must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers
have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will
come soon, my dear, very soon now--won't you?'
The boy smiled faintly--so very, very faintly--and put his hand
upon his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice
came from them; no, not a sound.
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